


The Redirection of Feeling and Desire

by L_Morgan



Series: Transference [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Dubious Ethics, First Time, Implied Incest, M/M, Mind Games, Post Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the months following Sherlock's fall, Mycroft finds himself in an unexpected romance with John and an even more complicated relationship with his wayward brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Redirection of Feeling and Desire

_The first time Mycroft met John, they sat across the small table in a local coffee house, their knees knocking delicately beneath the scarred wood. Surprised by the unexpected text, Mycroft, in the space of a heartbeat, decided that it would be better to meet his brother’s former flatmate anywhere but where he’d been upon receiving the invitation. The last time John had visited him at the Diogenese had not ended well for any of them._

Not entirely sure why he was now sitting in a coffee house, Mycroft simply watched as John fiddled with his tea. He could tell by the man’s carriage that he didn’t suspect the truth behind Sherlock’s seemingly permanent disappearance. Nor did John seem angry. Closed, but not angry. Searching, certainly. But in the 20 minutes that they’d been making small talk about the weather and the locum - because Mycroft could tell by John’s grip on the sturdy china that even the topic of Mrs. Hudson, normally such a source of comfort, was a little too close to home for the good doctor. At least for now.

In the wake of an extended, but not entirely uncomfortable silence, Mycroft’s attention was caught by the couple at the next table. Noticing the smudge of plum on the wrist of his cuff, a shade that did not in the least match the one on his current companion - the one to whom he was currently pledging his eternal devotion - he snorted inelegantly; a terrible habit that he’d picked up as a teenager from the much younger, Sherlock. 

Caught out by the sharp bark of John’s laughter, Mycroft swiveled; his stiff countenance melted in the face of John’s unadulterated joy.

‘Of course.’ Embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of it earlier, he twisted his mouth into the most Sherlockian sneer he could manage and proceeded to deduce the occupants of the entire shoppe. It was a game that he and Sherlock had played ever since they were children, and Mycroft ended up enjoying himself far more than he would ever have imagined.

Just as he was finishing his character assassination of the busboy - every word, entirely deserved - John reached over and touched his arm. Mycroft stopped mid-syllable, quirking a brow.

“Thank you," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Mycroft said nothing.

John linked their fingers, giving them a light squeeze before he pushed the chair back and stumbled to his feet, his eyes bright. “Thank you.”

Minutes passed while Mycroft looked carefully at the empty chair in front him, the half empty cup of tea, and the clock on the wall. Without allowing himself to give it to much thought, he reached into the deepest pocket of his waist coat and pulled out a simple black phone.

_I’m beginning to see why you kept him around all that time; he’s quite lovely - MH._

He held the phone carefully in the palm of his hand, as if it was a bird that might, at any moment, choose to fly away.

Looking back to the clock, he watched the hands move around the face - four, five, six times ‘round – before slipping the silent phone back into its pocket.  

~MH~

_The second time Mycroft met John, their knees rested gently together, underneath a table heavy with food: fish and chips for John and a salad for Mycroft. Despite the nearly two stone he’d dropped since Sherlock’s “death,” Mycroft wasn’t quite able to deviate from his rigid food plan - at least not yet._

Unlike that first awkward tea, conversation flowed as easily as if it had been Mycroft - rather than his brother - with whom the doctor had shared 221B. As if Mycroft hadn’t been the one to let Moriarty - and, subsequently, Sherlock - go.

This time, when they were ready to leave, John stood at the side of the table, waiting for Mycroft to adjust his suit coat and retrieve his umbrella he’d left hanging on the back of his chair during their visit.

“Well,” John hesitated at the door, holding it open for two young women to enter before allowing Mycroft to step out onto the crowded sidewalk.

Mycroft turned, squinting a little as he faced the sun. “Yes, John?” He prompted, shifting just so in order to see his companion more clearly.

John closed his eyes, shook his head, and then sighed. “I had a good time,” he said, the tendons in his neck tight, making it sound as if he was making a confession rather than paying a compliment.

Mycroft remained silent. It was rare that words failed. It was novel really. He was beginning to understand how this man had been able to get close to his otherwise unreachable brother.

“I miss him, you know,” John admitted after a beat. “I still haven’t been able to forgive you - not entirely, but I miss him. And God help me, you’re all I’ve got.”

This time it was Mycroft who found himself taking John’s hand in what he hoped was a reassuring grasp.

“You have no idea how sorry I am about how things worked out,” he said, meaning every word. He didn’t add that John was all he had as well - not because it wasn’t true in its own way, for when had he ever had Sherlock?

Who had ever had Sherlock, other than this man in front of him, who was currently holding hands in broad daylight with his “dead” flatmate’s brother?

He thought back to the first time he’d held John Watson’s hand in that rain soaked warehouse. That they should have come so far, after so much....

'Extraordinary.'

John shuddered, then extracting himself from Mycroft’s grasp, stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, would you be up for dinner anytime soon?”

After assurances had been made and details exchanged, Mycroft watched John walk away, a little more bounce in his step than just an hour before. He reached for his phone.

 _Did you know that John’s hands are amazingly warm for a man his age? MH_  

~MH~

_The third time Mycroft met John, they sat side by side, at a sports bar, just north of Bayswater. It wasn’t Mycroft’s normal scene, although he did enjoy the way the lights from the big screen television painted John’s features as Westham scored._

As Mycroft deduced the lives of those within a six table radius, John leaned closer and closer, ostensibly to keep Mycroft from drawing the attention of those closest to them along the bar. What it resulted in, intentionally or not, was the heat of John’s thigh searing his hip, palpable even though the denim of his jeans and the silk of Mycroft’s suit.

He stuttered to a stop; flabbergasted by the almost, but not quite, gentle affection affection in John’s eyes. 'Affection, how...unexpected.'

“You alright?” John leaned forward, their foreheads nearly colliding.  “I think that last pint did me in,” he groaned. “How about you? Ready to go?”

Mycroft nodded. Standing, he reached for his umbrella, only to find that John had beaten him to it. The elegant curve of the handle seemed, somehow at odds, with John’s weatherworn hands and in a moment that smacked decidedly of cheating – though upon whom he wasn’t quite sure - he wondered what those fingers might feel dancing across his skin. He blinked, all of the blood rushing all at once to his feet; he felt his stomach fall somewhere around his knees, a sensation that must have telegraphed itself on his face, if the concern in John’s eyes were to go by.

“You’re scaring me, Mycroft,” John remarked, sounding, for the first time since they’d started meeting, like the physician he was. He threw some notes on the table and reached out, surrendering the umbrella. “Do you need an arm? You look a little peaked.”

Mycroft negated the gesture with a quick shake of his head, reaching for the umbrella. He immediately felt better as his fingers curled around the familiar, John-warmed, handle.

John cast him another look before stepping back and ushering him through the crowded pub.

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, Mycroft’s car slid out from the shadows, only to idle silently a few meters back.

“May I offer you a ride, John?” Mycroft inquired politely, knowing he would be refused.

“No,” John shook his head, his cheeks pink under the lamplight. “I’ll enjoy the walk after that meal.” He rocked forward, reaching out to touch Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft startled.

“Just checking your temperature.” John bit back a smile. “As I said, you turned about 50 shades of pale in there and I want to just make sure you’re not running fever.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to slow the beating of his heart, as John’s slid his fingertips down this cheek, around his jaw, to sweep across his carotid artery.

“Not as subtle as Sherlock’s methods,” John mumbled. “But I never could find a pulse at the wrist.”

“And what does my pulse tell you, doctor?” Mycroft asked, turning his eyes away, staring decidedly down the road. He didn’t feel particularly aroused - more surprised than anything - but, still, he didn’t trust whatever John might find should he check his irises.

John rested his hand on his shoulder, before letting it fall. “You’ll live.”

Mycroft snapped his eyes back. 

This time John looked away, his gaze just over Mycroft’s left ear. “I had a good time.”

“As did I.”

Mycroft watched silently as John rolled his head from side to side, before allowing it to drop, his chin resting deeply into his chest. Keeping his gaze averted, he shook his head before looking back up.

“I still miss him.” John took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. “Sometimes I look at you and I see you. Other times....”

Mycroft nodded; he’d expected this. What he hadn’t expected was the brief tug of longing.

“If Sherlock hadn’t,” John swallowed and took breath. “If he hadn’t done what he did, I just feel like this is a side of you that I’d have not seen. You’re different with him gone.”

“I’m more like him?” Mycroft suggested lightly.

“Yeah,” John nodded, looking down at Mycroft’s shoes. “I know that you’ve got to go,” he started, turning ever so slightly toward the car, still idling, “and I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m thinking or if you’d even be willing....” Another deep breath and then John pulled himself up, almost like a puppet on a string. “...But could I?” John laughed. “Oh what the hell,” he murmured, reaching out and pulling Mycroft into a quick but awkward hug.

A hug, to Mycroft’s unexpected disappointment, that ended almost as quickly as it began

“Sorry about that,” John backpedaled immediately.

When Mycroft didn’t respond, he soldiered on. “Well, there’s your car,” he remarked as if it hadn’t been sitting there all that time. “Although you seem fine, if you start feeling under the weather.....” He reached out to smooth a small crease in Mycroft’s jacket, his fingers coming dangerously close to the phone secreted within the waist coat. “I hope I didn’t spoil the line of your suit....”

“John,” he interrupted, his voice low, soft. Tilting his head to one side, he leaned forward, umbrella and all, and folded him into a tender embrace. “Anytime,” he whispered into the surprisingly soft skin at the temple that was a touch too warm in the cool night air.

‘Blushing,’ he deduced, not loosening his grip until John had the opportunity to compose himself. “I miss him too,” Mycroft murmured, not entirely sure if that was the right thing to say, but knowing this...display...was really more about Sherlock than it was either of them. Ignoring how the fists buried in the back of his jacket were most definitely spoiling the line, he held steadfast as John shuddered, his breath coming in short, stuttering exhalations.

After a few seconds John stepped back, seemingly unwillingly - or unable - to meet his eyes. “I - “ John began, before grinding to a halt. “It seems like all I ever say to you these days is thank you,” he said, reaching up to knock away a tear. He took a deep breath, shoulders back, chest forward.

'He really was quite attractive in his own way.'

“You’re all right, Mycroft,” John said, finally. “I mean that. And about what I said earlier, about not being able to forgive you.....” He waved his hand between them weakly. “We’re all right.”

“Yes,” Mycroft reached up to dry away one of the tears that John missed, this one clinging stubbornly to eyelashes that Mycroft who, in all of their previous interactions, hadn’t noticed were quite that long. “Or, in any case, we will be.”

Pushing his hands into his pockets, John turned to walk away, causing Mycroft’s hand to fall uselessly. He’d only taken two steps when he stopped and glanced back over this shoulder.

“Same time next week,” he said, more a statement than a question.

Mycroft nodded. “Same time.” Glancing disparagingly at the bar John had picked, he added with a familiar sneer, “But different location.”

It was just enough. John laughed, the tension lifting off of him like a heavy fog in the late morning. As he passed the car, he waved goodnight to Anthea, and continued down the road without looking back.

Without taking a step, Mycroft fished out his phone.

_Did you know that John has a spot under his left ear that smells of burnished chai? MH_

If that didn’t get a response, Mycroft smirked, sliding into the back of the black town car, he wasn’t sure what would.

~*~

Mycroft had barely closed the door to his Kensington townhouse when he was slammed into the wall, the clatter of his keys against the Italian tiles ricocheting throughout the “empty” entryway like gunfire.

His startled huff gave away to a low groan of relief as long, searching fingers pressed into the area beneath his collar bone and what seemed like kilometers of leg insinuated itself beneath his own.

“Hello, Brother,” he drawled, catching his breath; he was shooting for bored, but wasn’t quite sure he’d made it.

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, pushing his face against Mycroft’s neck, taking deep breaths, mouth open.

“God Lord, Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to push him away, only to get a forearm across the throat for his efforts. “You sound like a hound. What on earth are you doing?”

“I said shut up!” Sherlock demanded, taking yet another deep breath; he moaned, sagging completely into Mycroft’s sturdier frame. “What on earth’s name were you doing with my flat mate, you pig?” he demanded. “If I didn’t know better - of John - I would think you and he had been rolling around in that ridiculous black tank of yours.”

“Oh,” Mycroft arched his brow, one of the few body parts still under his control, what with Sherlock invading every inch of his personal space. “Am I allowed to speak, now?”

“No, no,” Sherlock shook his head, stepping back far enough to let Mycroft stand straight. “Come with me, you big lump.” Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s hand and shoved him ahead, pushing him through the foyer, towards a large leather coach that had only rarely ever been sat on.

Forcing Mycroft down onto the couch, Sherlock flipped on a small lamp table.

“What happened to you? Take off your jacket!” Sherlock demanded. “Now Mycroft. And be quiet. Don’t say a word.”

“Then how am I supposed to--?”

“Shut up!” Sherlock put his hands over his ears.

Sighing, Mycroft pushed himself up enough to take off his jacket and toss it casually over the back of the couch. He also managed to slip the phone out of this waistcoat and in between the cushions before Sherlock climbed on top of him - one knee on either side of his thigh, one sinewy arm across his chest. Not entirely displeased, Mycroft held his tongue as his prodigal brother once again laid his head in the crook of his neck.

“John,” Sherlock muttered. “What have you been doing with John?”

Not sure whose modesty he was trying to protect, Mycroft shifted, moving Sherlock’s hips ever so slightly to the left.

“And why aren’t you fat anymore?” Sherlock asked, taking yet another deep inhalation and holding it, as if there were literally smoke in his lungs.

Not entirely sure where to put his hands, Mycroft reached for the jacket and slipped it over Sherlock’s slender frame. Feeling a little less exposed himself, he laid his hands gently on the fine silk, somewhere between Sherlock’s hips and shoulder blades.

When Mycroft didn’t answer, Sherlock, taking yet another deep inhale, pushed himself up against Mycroft’s chest until their eyes met in the semi-darkness.

“You can talk now, you know,” Sherlock prompted.

“I didn’t know,” Mycroft said. “It’s good to see you, Sherlock. I’d been worried.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Yes, Mycroft, I know how you worry. I don’t care about that though. Tell me about John. And, tell me, what happened to you. You hardly look like you at all. Really, Mycroft, you’re probably only a couple of stone heavier than me now. I hardly recognized you.”

“One stone,” Mycroft corrected, lightly. “I’ve been worried about you. Perhaps it affected my appetite.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to slip the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt.

“What are you doing?!” Mycroft struggled to sit up, but stopped, shocked, when Sherlock laid down on his bare chest, taking yet another deep breath.

“If you were really John,” Sherlock remarked, “you’d stroke my hair.” He trailed his fingers across Mycroft’s shoulder. It tickled. “If you were really John,” he repeated, “you’d tell me how much you’d missed me.”

“If I _were_ John,” Mycroft laid his hand at the nape of his brother’s neck and allowed himself to touch, ever so softly, uneasiness tensing every muscle. “I would have punched as soon as I saw you, called you a right bastard, and maybe even threatened you with my Browning.”

“Very well,” Sherlock admitted, pulling himself even closer, continuing to take deep, one would assume, Watson-flavored hits of breath.  “Cold,” he said, apropos of nothing, yet seemed pleased when Mycroft pulled the jacket tighter around them. “But once all that was done, he’d tell me how much he missed me.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded fragile in a way that Mycroft hadn’t heard in decades. He stroked the long planes of his brother’s body and tried not to think about what it felt like to hold Sherlock this way after so many years of fighting.

“He might,” Sherlock ventured hesitantly, “he might even tell me that he loved me.”

Mycroft’s breath stilled, though he continued to paint intricate patterns across his favorite evening jacket. Forcing himself to take a quiet breath, Mycroft cleared his throat.   “I missed you, Sherlock,” he admitted. “In fact, I missed you terribly.”

“I missed you too,” Sherlock replied, burying his face even farther underneath Mycroft’s chin, shifting to bring their bodies closer still.

Mycroft took another breath and spoke the words that he’d thought a thousand times over the last three decades, but never dared utter aloud. “I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gasped, his hands tightening imperceptibly around Mycroft’s shoulders. “I love you too,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

As they lay on the couch that - in retrospect, to that day had never even been sat on - Mycroft allowed himself to wonder who it was Sherlock had actually answered.

~*~

Mycroft woke with a start, his skin chilled; the light was wrong, his head fuzzy. He mentally retraced his steps, starting with the office, the car ride across town with Anthea discussing tomorrow’s meeting with the Prime Minister, John, the hug, Sher-! He sat up quickly, absent the weight of his brother.

“I’m still here.”

Mycroft swiveled, caught completely unaware. Yet, there he was, Sherlock coiled up in one of the winged back chairs, in loosely fitting black trousers and Mycroft’s dinner jacket. Sherlock had lost his shirt at some point at the night and Mycroft couldn’t help but notice how his skin practically glowed in the now moonlit room.

“Sherlock,” he stated simply.

Sherlock quirked a brow, “Mycroft.”

They sat there for what seemed like eternity, easily slipping into the standoffs that had been the hallmark of their relationship.

“Are you staying long?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged, drawing in a harsh breath. “Long enough, I imagine.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers and resting their elegant tips on his chin. “I want to see John.”

Mycroft shook his head immediately. “That’s impossible. You know that.”

“Bring him here.”

Mycroft blinked.

“He won’t even know that I’m here,” Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration. “I promise you, dear brother, John’s not that observant.”

“Surely if you need to see him, you can simply follow him home from work,” Mycroft countered. “Surely the world’s only consulting detective could manage that much without giving himself away.”

“Bring him here, Mycroft,” Sherlock repeated. “Bring him here so that when he leaves, I’ll be able to smell him on the furniture, on the dishes....” He looked away, then back to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “On you.”

Mycroft said nothing.

“Do this for me. I’ll be leaving soon and it’s not entirely clear that I’ll be back.”

“What do you mean by that, _exactly?”_ he asked, pulling the open shirt tightly around him.

Sherlock bit his lower lip. “Sebastion Moran is proving to be a more elusive and, therefore, difficult and dangerous opponent that I had imagined,” he admitted. “Perhaps even more dangerous than Moriarty, because he, unlike good old ‘Jim’ isn’t emotionally compromised.”

“A _true_ sociopath?” Mycroft mocked, gently, sitting up straight.

Sherlock’s jaw relaxed, the barb obviously having the intended effect.

“A true _psychopath,_ brother. Do keep up.”

“If I were to bring John, here, he would assume that I was trying to seduce him,” Mycroft pointed out; choosing to go with the conversation that he felt could be had without the benefit of his full three piece suit, rather than to face even the possibility of Sherlock’s potentially pending death.

“And?” Sherlock prompted. “Would he be wrong?”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, as if that would help him see the situation from a different perspective. It didn’t. “Just because he might not necessarily be wrong doesn’t mean that he would necessarily be right.”

“So sayeth the man who is the British Government.” Standing, Sherlock he held out his hand - not looking too unlike her majesty herself. “Come along, Mycroft.”

“Come along? Where are we going?” Mycroft rose to his feet slowly, shoulder stiff from too many hours - though he actually had no idea how much time had passed - on the couch. “Where pray tell are you taking me, little brother. And what on earth is the time?”

“It’s gone three,” Sherlock answered slipping his hand into Mycroft’s. “And I am taking you nowhere, as you are the host - albeit a very poor one - and I am your erstwhile, and unsurprisingly, exhausted guest. Is this how you treat all of your fugitive house guests?” He asked. “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

“So, then where I am I taking you?” He responded, ignoring the barb. Taking two steps closer, he could literally feel the heat radiating of Sherlock’s body. 'He always had had the better metabolism no matter what abuse he threw at it....'

“You,” Sherlock recalled his attention, “are taking me to bed.”

If they weren’t the same height Mycroft would have looked down his nose. As it was he stopped in his tracks and drew back.

“You realize that the last time you said something like that to me, your idea of ‘bed’ was on a pallet of Mummy’s furs beneath the dining room table?” He hesitated, knowing that Sherlock would undoubtedly mock his deflection. “I’m too old to sleep on the floor, Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock pulled him forward, dragging him across the living room that suddenly seemed ten degrees too warm. “And I expect a pair of your good pajamas,” Sherlock informed him as they started up the stairs, “and not some of your old hand me downs. Now that we’re nearly the same size....”

Mycroft tuned out the chatter, focusing one foot in front of the other.

It wasn’t even clear that they were heading to the same room after all, not really.

But try as he might, he couldn’t get rid of the memory of Sherlock using him as a pillow just hours before and wonder just what exactly had happened to his brother since he’d been gone.

While Sherlock used the loo - and, no doubt, Mycroft’s toothbrush - Mycroft pulled out a pair of silk pajamas that Anthea had purchased just last week. Two sizes smaller than what he was before the “death.” Sherlock would still swim in them, but they’d have to do.

He was in the process of hanging up his suit trousers when Sherlock returned from the en suite, wearing his boxers and the jacket.

“Are you planning on sleeping in that?” Mycroft held out his hand, but turned his back as Sherlock shimmied out of the suit coat. “Thank you,” he said mechanically once he had the garment in hand. “Your pajamas are on the bed. I know that they’ll be too big on you - most everything is - so just spare me the details, would you?”

He flipped off the closet light, but stood there for a moment, looking at nothing. Taking a steadying breath, he turned back to his brother, who had donned the shirt, but left the bottoms where they were.

“Is that all you’re wearing?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ignored him, slipping into Mycroft’s side of the bed, burying his head beneath the pillow.

With an exaggerated sigh, Mycroft slipped into the unused bottoms and climbed into the other side - the more often than not unused side - of the bed. Wondering just how many spaces in his flat had actually never supported the weight of any human, himself or otherwise, he reached across the expanse that separated them, tangling his fingers into wispy hairs at Sherlock’s nape.

“Goodnight, Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured, his voice thick with sleep, pushing his head back into the light touch.

‘Sociopath, my bullocks,’ Mycroft thought putting his misgivings into a box.

“Sweet dreams.”

 

~MH~ 

_The fourth time Mycroft met John, John definitely thought of it as a date - it was written all over him in the clean lines of his closely fitted blue shirt, his newly cleaned leather jacket and his recently polished shoes - that and the rather expensive bottle of wine given the man’s wages that was thrust in Mycroft’s hands the second he opened the door._

“Good evening, John,” Mycroft greeted, shifting the bottle to one arm and plucking at the cuffs of the charcoal cashmere sweater that Sherlock had insisted he wear in place of his normal three piece suit. “Do come in.”

“This is very nice,” John looked around, as he stepped into the foyer. “Very nice, indeed.” He closed his eyes and grimaced.

“Everything all right?” Mycroft touched his shoulder gently, lingering only for a second. “For a moment there, you looked like you’d seen a ghost,” he remarked, just in case Sherlock has decided to break the two room buffer rule that they’d negotiated long into the morning.

John opened his eyes and forced a smile. “Not a ghost, exactly,” he assured, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the ornate coat rack with the precision of a man determined not to break anything. “Just a wicked shot of deja vu.” He motioned to Mycroft, “And you, look at you. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of a suit.” His ears pinked. “It suits you,” he mumbled. “So to speak.”

Mycroft glanced down, before ushering John into the living room, past the couch - it was The Couch now, at least in his mind - and through to the kitchen. He took a deep breath. “Thank you. One of my cousins, Charlotte, was in town last week and she insisted we go shopping. She doesn’t get to London all that often--”

“Wait, wait!” John reached out and grabbed his arm, his fingers sliding to purchase on the delicate cashmere. “You have a cousin? A girl cousin?” He smiled, as if Christmas had come early. “Do you mean there are more of you?”

Mycroft frowned, unable to shake the picture that Sherlock made as they went gallivanting throughout Kensington.

Sherlock holding onto Mycroft’s arm as if he were the center of his universe, dressed impeccably in a pencil thin skirt and a Hepburn-esque jacket that he’d gotten from God knows where. How and where Sherlock had learned to walk in heels, Mycroft had absolutely no idea and truth be told, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Especially when he found himself wondering just who else had ever seen his brother in silk stockings and a wig.

“The Holmes family is a very old and distinguished family, John. Of course there are ‘more of us.’” He paused and checked with his internal barometer; yes, he could say this with a straight face - there was Mummy, after all. “And, yes, some of them are ‘girls.’”

John shook his head, sliding onto one the barstools.

“That must have seemed really rude of me. Of course I didn’t think that you and Sher-” His voice broke ever so slightly. “-lock crawled out from under a rock or anything like that. But I honestly hadn’t thought there might actually be, well, what I said: more of you. What’s she like - this Charlotte? Is she a Holmes too?”

“Yes, she is. She’s much like us, actually,” Mycroft pictured himself sitting at the negotiating table in any number of those countries that he’d been in over the last five years that ended in -stan. “In fact, we ran into your old friend, Sally Donovan...” 'Which is the _only_ reason I am telling you this now.' “....coming out of a coffee shoppe in Knightsbridge. I’m afraid we gave her quite a shock.”

As Sherlock was fond of saying, even in the face of the best laid plans, or even the most brilliant deductions, there is always something. At least they hadn’t run into the Detective Inspector - for something told Mycroft that Lestrade wouldn’t have been quite so easy to put off.

John frowned. “Do you mean she’s like you, like you, like she deduces people or does she look like you?”

“Let us just say that if we - if I had had a sister - it would have been Charlotte, in both looks and in temperament.” Preferring to keep the lie as close to the truth as possible, Mycroft sighed. “Needless to say, Charlotte took me to task for my old man suits and demanded that I buy some more ‘age appropriate’ clothes, at least for home.” He held up his arms and did a little twirl, catching a shadow lingering just outside of the door, as he did so.

“So, there you have it, one female Holmes and you have fashion transformation of epic proportions.” Mycroft smirked. “That and a cup of spilled coffee and a very pissed off DS.”

John laughed. “Well, that, I would have paid money to see.”

“Drink?” Mycroft interjected, more than ready to let the subject of his dear “cousin” go. “Dinner is actually ready; so we’ll just need to get ourselves sorted here, before heading into the formal dining room,” he telegraphed, grateful to see the shadow melt away silently.

“Sounds a bit posh.” John commented. “Don’t know that I’ve ever had dinner in a private dining room.”

“I rarely eat there myself,” Mycroft returned. “I’m using you as the excuse. Now what can I get you to start? It’s a simple meal, actually. A little salad, roasted chicken and veg.”

John looked surprised.

“After a long week of formal meals...” He reached down and touched his stomach self-consciously. “...I tend to eat rather simply at home. I hope you don’t mind, but if you’d like, it would be no problem to whip up a sauce or a nice comfit.”

Shaking his head, John glanced down at his hands. “No, not all - roasted chicken and veg sounds great - really nice.” He glanced back up. “In fact, I was a little bit nervous that it was all going to fancy sauces and things I couldn’t pronounce.”

'Thank you, Sherlock.'

“Though why I thought that, I’m not sure,” John rushed on. “All I’ve ever seen you eat is salad.” He looked slightly uncomfortable.

“About those drinks?” Mycroft prompted, trying to put John back at ease. “I have a nice Sauvignon Blanc chilling in the other room if you’d like to start now?”

“Yeah,” John’s voice was gruff as he pushed himself to his feet. “Why don’t we just do that? And Sauvignon Blanc sounds perfect.”

Hoping that Sherlock had retreated at least as far as the library, he ushered John through the sun room and into the formal dining room.

“Quite spacious this,” John said. “Bedrooms upstairs?”

“Yes, there’s a master bedroom and guest room on the second floor, along with what used to be two rooms on the third that I’ve converted into my - well, Sherlock used to refer to it as my war room.”

John raised his hands defensively. “Say no more, Mycroft - I’d hate for you to have shoot me before the evening’s up.”

Mycroft smiled, “You would not be alone in that sentiment, John. I can assure you.” 

~*~

Dark and drafty, the formal dining room was not a comfortable room.

In fact, it was Mycroft’s least favorite room in the house, one that he avoided at all costs except on those rare occasions when he was forced to bring his work, usually in the form of petulant diplomats or annoying Americans, home.

Its one saving grace, at least in terms of his needs, this evening, was a southern wall of glass, which, at a certain angle, gave its occupants an unobstructed view into (and out of) the library - a library that, at this moment, was plunged in darkness and, he hoped against hope, would stay that way.

This afternoon, he and Sherlock had moved the dining room table so that one of the chairs - the one that John would be using - would offer the library a perfect view of its occupant’s profile. John would be there, whereas Mycroft would be stationed to John’s immediate right. Sitting next to John, instead of across from him, would do two things: 1) further the illusion, if one could even call it that, of intimacy, and 2) offer Sherlock his fill, given that he wasn’t content to watch them through the CCTV that reached into every knick and cranny of the three story townhouse.

Ushering John to his seat, Mycroft busied himself by bringing over the plates that had been under warming domes on one of the oak buffets.

John smiled his appreciation. “Did you cook this?” he asked. “It smells fabulous.”

“It’s quite simple.” Mycroft went to get the wine, taking a moment to wipe away the moisture from the bottle. “In fact, I daresay that it’s all in the herbs. It’s amazing what one can do with a little fresh sage.”

“Well, it looks and smells amazing,” he pulled unfolded his napkin, placing it in his lap. “I had no idea you could cook. Indeed, if I had, I might have thought I’d picked the wrong brother.”

A slight pause hung between them and in the brief silence, John blushed. “Well, you know that I mean.”

“Of course.” Mycroft poured the wine and then lifted his glass. “Bon appetit.”

John dipped his head down, then back up. “Bon appetit.”

Mycroft studied the man in front of him. Diminutive, yet ridiculously brave and loyal. He’d killed for Sherlock the day after they’d met and had managed to live with him for close to two years - no small feat in and of itself.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock often referred to him as the most dangerous man that you’d be likely to meet; however, sitting here in his dimly lit dining room, he was beginning to think of John Watson in similar terms.

Not that John would do anything to harm Mycroft, nor even Sherlock - at least not intentionally. But this little man, with his sad eyes and greying hair and his off the rack shirts and sweaters had, somehow altered his brother and, in so doing, had altered them all in irreparable ways.

_‘I thought you said caring wasn’t an advantage, brother?’ Sherlock asked, his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder, the sunrise painting pink stripes across the heavy duvet._

_‘I have yet to say otherwise.’_

_‘Yet, here we are.’_

_Mycroft sighed, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls. ‘Indeed.’_

The last seven days had found Sherlock in Mycroft’s bed.

Two of the nights, they had gone up together, much like they’d done the night of Sherlock’s return. Those nights were the most uncomfortable, at least for him, as they changed into half of Mycroft’s bed clothes and slid into bed, together, bodies touching, but only peripherally, never with hands or fingers - only to wake up tangled together.

The other five, Mycroft awoke with Sherlock wrapped around him, even though he’d left his brother in the study pouring over files and surveillance tapes, disparaging sleep and those lesser mortals who seemed to need an inordinate amount of it.

Reaching for the salt cellar, Mycroft pondered the changes and where this was going. The last thing Sherlock had said to him before he had moved to let John in was to kiss John.

_“Get him to kiss you goodnight, Mycroft! And if you can’t manage that, you’ll just have to set decorum aside and do it yourself!”_

He started at the feel of John’s hand on his wrist.

“You all right there, Mycroft?” John’s head was cocked to one side.

Just as Mycroft started to answer, his phone vibrated: a text.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mycroft apologized, digging into his trousers pocket. “I meant to turn that off.” He glanced at the number and sighed. “Let me just take a quick look; I’m afraid that it’s the matter that has me a bit preoccupied this evening.” He stood quickly and walked over to the French doors, where he was sure Sherlock would see him.

_Stop being boring. SH_

Mycroft chuckled despite himself. “Yes, your Majesty,” he responded verbally, knowing full well that Sherlock could hear him across the wire and that John would think exactly what Mycroft wanted him to think. He tapped out a brief string of nonsense, before turning off the phone and laying it in the windowsill.

“Now that that’s taken care of,” he smiled as he took his seat, “tell me all about your day. I understand that Detective Inspector Lestrade has been reinstated and that he has actually called you in to consult on a new case.”

John lit up.

Crisis averted.

“Yeah, he called me just a few days ago. Seems like all of the internal charges were dropped and he’s back on Homicide.” John took a sip of wine. “He called me to see if I could take a look at the autopsy report. Of course I’m not as quick as Sherlock, but I hope I can help.....”

As he proceeded to share all of the details of the case that he could remember, Mycroft could only assume that there would be three solutions and five disparaging remarks about the Yard on his phone before dessert.

Assuming that Sherlock didn’t disappoint - and wasn’t too busy sulking about being relegated to the study - Mycroft would text John the information later in the week.

The rest of the meal passed quickly and pleasantly enough.

Only once did Mycroft actually see Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway just outside of John’s peripheral vision. In order to make sure John kept his attention front and center, Mycroft pretended to choke on his crumble, which made sure that he had 100 - if not 110% - of the good doctor’s attention.

He found himself quite warm indeed, staring into John’s eyes - John, who had come quite close in order to make sure that Mycroft was okay.

Remembering his charge, Mycroft swallowed.

However, when he placed his hand on John’s wrist and asked him if he’d like to join him in a nightcap, John deferred. And for a moment, Mycroft panicked.

“I have an early shift tomorrow,” John said by means of explanation. “But thanks for having me for dinner, Mycroft. It’s been...” John pursed his lips. “Dinner was great. You’re great. But it’s....” He hesitated.

“Too much?” Mycroft suggested.

John shrugged. “A bit too much. But a bit not enough, if that makes sense.” He stood quickly, pushed his hands in his pockets, and made his way to the front of the house. “I really need to go.”

Mycroft pushed himself up from the table, then followed closely at John’s heals, only hesitating to press the call button for Anthea to get the car. “John, I--” he began, not knowing what to say.

Which turned out to be fine, as John raised a hand, cutting him off.

“You know, I once told Sherlock--” John took a deep breath. “I once told your brother that it - it being whatever he wanted our relationship to be was fine, that it was all fine - but it was a lie. I didn’t know it at the time, or maybe it changed after the fact. But I wanted him - I wanted every single part of him. And now he’s gone and now you’re here and I find myself almost in the same space, never mind that it seems like two lifetimes ago.”

John reached for his jacket, thrusting his arms into the sleeves before pulling it closed around him. “But I find myself wanting to tell you - the most powerful man in Britain the same thing - that it’s fine. That it would all be fine. But it seems too soon to feel like that about someone else, not that it’s the same, because it’s not. But you’re so much like him that I just don’t know....” John turned away closing his eyes. “I wouldn’t even be here if he weren’t dead, would I?”

“Why are you here, John?” Mycroft took a step forward; he reached out and touched John’s jaw, encouraging him to look back, to meet this gaze.

“Damned if I know.” And with that, John leaned forward, his mouth meeting Mycroft’s in a gentle kiss. “Damned if I know,” he repeated, before bringing their lips together again, a little less gentle, a little more demanding.

Mycroft gasped, he clutched at John’s hips. John’s lips were slightly chapped and he tasted of the sage and wine that they’d had for dinner, with just a touch of sugar from the crumble.

John licked into his mouth, tasting, searching, and Mycroft let him, opening himself up the luxury of being explored, of being wanted, even if they both knew he was a just a cheap substitute.

‘Just how many men am I going to be tonight?’

John pulled back and gave him a sweet closed mouth kiss that was no less potent for all of its chastity.

“I need to go,” he said, taking Mycroft’s hands, gathering them together and kissing each palm. “Thank you for dinner, Mycroft. Thank you for--” John’s voice broke. “Thank you for everything.”

 

 

 ~*~

Mycroft stood silently in the foyer; he didn’t need to turn to know that Sherlock was right behind him. He could feel the electricity in the air between them.

“Don’t say a word,” Sherlock murmured, sliding his arms around Mycroft’s waist from the back. He buried his face in Mycroft’s neck and took a deep inhalation. “You smell good.”

Mycroft snorted, before loosening Sherlock’s arms just enough so that he could turn, bringing them face to face.

“Shhh,” Sherlock reminded, closing his eyes and dragging his cheeks across Mycroft’s face, much like an over grown cat. “Mmm,” he groaned, bringing their bodies flush.

After a few peaceful moments, he drew back, looking at Mycroft speculatively - at Mycroft’s mouth, in particular.

“Go ahead, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, his nerves growing taut in the silence that should have been more uncomfortable than it was. “You’re obviously dying to.”

'And God knows that I am dying for you to...'

Sherlock leaned forward, claiming his mouth with a ferocity that was quite astounding in its intensity. This wasn’t a kiss - this was, this was an attack. Unable to keep his bearings, Mycroft tried to push Sherlock away only to find himself knocked up against the wall, much like he’d been that first night, eight days ago.

As if sensing his discomfort, Sherlock placed both hands on his face, gentling the kiss.

Taking a calming breath through his nose, Mycroft closed his eyes. ‘This is not about you,’ he assured himself, letting his hands find Sherlock’s hips. ‘This has absolutely nothing to do with you.’

Surrendering his desire to make sense of what they were doing - to put their behavior, all of it, everything that had happened into a neat little box - Mycroft relaxed into the kiss. To enjoy the kiss. He focused on the sensation of lips against his own, breath on skin, and a tongue seeking out all of most intimate secrets, taking, seeking, searching. Asking.

Suddenly, the kiss changed and alarms went off in Mycroft’s head. Sherlock pulled back unexpectedly. Forcing himself to take a shallow breath, Mycroft wondered what he’d see in his brother’s eyes if he opened his own in that moment; yet he didn’t have the nerve to actually do it. He couldn’t.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered, his fingers lingering on his skin, dancing along cheekbones that Mycroft was well aware looked more like his own than they ever had at any previous point in their lives.

‘Who do you see, when you look at me?’ he wondered, waiting. 

Not sure what he was expecting - it certainly wasn’t for Sherlock to lean forward and kiss him again; soft, quiet, tentative. Unsure.

“Mycroft,” he whispered again, their lips separated by a mere breath’s width.

And with that single word Mycroft’s world  - and everything he’d ever thought he’d known about Sherlock’s - went up in flames. 

~*~

As the days passed, Sherlock became increasingly fixated on Sebastian Moran. He spent hours pacing the townhouse, going over files.

When he was at home, Mycroft often sat in one of the wing back chairs, watching him pace a pattern in the carpets.

They hadn’t talked about the kiss in the hall, following John’s departure.

Nor did they really talk about the new sleeping arrangements.

Nor did they talk about the Wednesday afternoon that Mycroft came home early to find Sherlock naked and writhing in the center of Mycroft’s bed wrapped in nothing but Mycroft’s new cashmere sweater Sherlock himself had picked out for “their" evening with John.

Nor did they talk about how Mycroft had stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock bring himself off with short practiced strokes, his fingers thrusting deep inside his own body.

Nor had they talked about Mycroft’s name called out just as loudly as John’s.

What they did talk about was Sebastian Moran and what it would take to actually find the man so that Sherlock might actually be able to come back home and, it went without saying, back to 221B - to John.

What they did talk about was Sherlock’s unyielding demands that Mycroft bed his former flatmate. But, at that, Mycroft drew the line. He refused to bed John Watson in order to fulfill one of Sherlock’s undoubtedly misguided fantasies.  Moreover, he had no interest in bedding John Watson - at least, not now.

“I have no intention to sleep with your flatmate, Sherlock!” Mycroft scoffed. “I might have done it before, but given the circumstances, I think it would be highly inappropriate.”

“And what circumstances would those be?” Sherlock countered, still firmly ensconced on Mycroft’s side of the bed. “The fact that I'm here more nights than not?”

“Those are some of them, yes,” Mycroft admitted. “But the main one being that he’s in love with you, Sherlock and, based on your albeit antisocial attachment towards him, I would say the same about you.”

Mycroft reached out and took his hand. “Ask yourself, really, brother: do you want me to sleep with John?” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “Do you really want to watch me making love to John, to _take_ John, the way you watched me kiss him? And then do what? Do I fuck John and then toss him out to come have my wicked way with you? Is that what you want? Is this what this is leading to?  If so, there are more direct paths to your end goal I can assure.”

Sherlock pulled his hand away. “Don’t be absurd, brother.”

“Or would you rather I drug him and let you have at him while he thinks he’s with me?”

Silence.

“You’d do that?” Sherlock asked finally, pushing himself on one elbow and looking down to meet Mycroft’s steady gaze. “Could you?”

“There are ways, brother dear,” Mycroft chided. “There are drugs that alter the conscious, dull the senses, and make one very susceptible to suggestion. Surely you know this, after your experience with Miss Adler.”

Sherlock scoffed; his head fell onto Mycroft’s chest.“I was completely incapacitated. Besides, John’s a doctor. He’d know if he’d been drugged.”

“A doctor with only a textbook understanding of the effects of narcotics in the system,” Mycroft countered, having gone over John’s medical records with a fine toothed comb just the day before. “And, trust me, I would not incapacitate him. Merely confuse him and make a suggestion.”

“What kind of suggestion?” Sherlock demanded, obviously intrigued despite himself.

Mycroft smiled and he knew without having to see it that it was bittersweet. “One that he can’t possibly refuse.”

“So you’ll do it?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft pushed Sherlock away; shocked despite himself. “You’re _serious?”_

Sherlock didn’t blink. “Aren’t you?”

They stared at one another silently in the darkness.

Mycroft reached out and brushed Sherlock’s cheek. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want him.” Sherlock rolled away. “And despite that he was patently never interested in me that way, he’s obviously interested in you. As pathetic as it seems, I’ll take what I can get, despite his clear lack of taste.”

Mycroft frowned, as much as the idea that Sherlock really didn’t see how much John cared for him as for the small slight against him. “Surely you don’t believe that.”

“What else am I supposed to believe?” Sherlock snapped. “‘I’m not his date.’” he mimicked. “‘Colleagues - we’re colleagues.’ ‘Not his date.’ ‘It’s not a date.’ Yet I’ve been gone less than a year and all of a sudden he’s _your_ date. He laughs at _your_ jokes, holds _your_ hands, and kisses _your_ lips. And what did he say? Let me see if I heard it correctly: ‘I had no idea you could cook. Indeed, if I had, I’d have thought I’d picked the wrong brother.’” His voice broke. “Wasn’t that it? Tell me, is there something that I've missed, brother dear?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft reached out and drew him back into his arms. “He said _might_ have thought.... John loves you. This has all been about you. Every word. Every touch.”

Sherlock shuddered against him. “I’m so tired, Mycroft,” he said. “So very tired.”

“I know,” Mycroft tilted his face back and kissed his eyelids. “I know.”

 

 ~MH~

_The fifth time Mycroft met John, they met for dinner at exclusive Thai restaurant fifteen minutes from Mycroft’s town home. John seemed nervous, perhaps even more so when Mycroft greeted him with a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. The maitre de escorted them to a dimly lit corner in the back. Three red candles decorated the table._

Despite John’s initial unease, the conversation flowed easily and before long, Mycroft found their legs mixing easily beneath the fine cotton tablecloth. When John excused himself to hit the loo, Mycroft took a small vial out of his pocket and put three drops of clear liquid into John’s water glass.

Assuming John came back and finished his water, as was his habit, Mycroft’s calculations would suggest that they would need to be back at his flat within 25 minutes. He had tested the drug on Sherlock the previous evening with more than satisfactory results. Both times he’d remained alert enough to make decisions, albeit open to suggestion.

He motioned for the waiter to bring the check and was in the process of paying when John returned to his seat and, like clockwork, downed the contents of his glass.

“I thought it was my turn to get this,” John commented as Mycroft threw a twenty down to cover the tip.

“Don’t be silly, John,” Mycroft stood, grabbing his umbrella from where it hung on the back of the chair. “Chicken and veg don’t truly count as a meal. Besides, I’m sure you’ll get it next time.” He met John’s eyes levelly. “Assuming, of course, there will be a next time.”

“Don’t see why not,” John remarked, shrugging into his jacket. “Seems like this is getting to be quite the regular thing, come to think.”

“Yes.” Mycroft cocked his head to one side and hoped he looked charming. “Yet I find nothing regular, or ordinary, about our time together. I’d like to think that you agree.”

John smiled. “I’m with you a hundred percent in that regard, don’t you worry.”

Mycroft glanced at his watch.

“I’ve called for the car, John. I have a nice trifle at home that will go just lovely with a brandy. Are you game?” Mycroft had checked John’s schedule; he didn’t have to work in the morning. Worse case scenario - that is, if John refused to accompany him home - Mycroft would just get him back to Baker Street. Without any external stimuli, John would probably chalk the whole thing up to one too many glasses of wine and go to bed.

“My mum made a good trifle,” John bumped Mycroft’s shoulder. “Though I was sort of thinking that you might be asking me for a bit of tea and crumpet.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “My larder over floweth, doctor. And you may help yourself to whatever you prefer."

John squared his shoulders. “I may very well do that.”

The ride home was short and largely silent. There was a tension in the air that was almost palpable, but it was more anticipatory than uncomfortable. Mycroft enjoyed the buzz, but his attention was not on the man at his side, but rather on the one, who at this very moment should be scrubbing himself into oblivion in the bathroom of the master suite with Mycroft’s triple milled French soap.

Although Mycroft had serious misgivings about The Plan, and the effect that it would have on Sherlock’s and John’s relationship long term, he set them aside - for better or worse - for the benefit of Sherlock’s immediate emotional and perhaps even physical well-being.

Sherlock had to be 100% if he had any hope in hell of actually getting to Moran, and it hadn’t been until last night that he realized how John’s apparent desertion had affected him. If he went back out against Moriarty’s top gun in his current state, Mycroft had little doubt that he really would be burying his brother within a space of six months. 'Perish the thought.'

As the car glided to a smooth stop, Mycroft gathered up his belongings. “Shall we?”

John gave him a short nod. “Absolutely.”

Once inside, Mycroft showed John to The Couch before pouring them both a drink. 

John accepted the scotch warily. “Everything okay? What happened to the trifle and brandy?”

“How are you feeling, John?”

John tilted his head to one side, as if checking his internal systems. “I feel fine, I think. A little loose, now that I think of it. Why do you ask?”

Mycroft squared his shoulders. “Because I put something in your water, so that when you had sex with me, you’d think I was Sherlock.”

Mycroft could feel his phone vibrating deep inside his waistcoat; he ignored it.

“You _what?!”_ John exclaimed, reaching for his drink. “You _put_ something in my drink?” He glanced at the glass’ content, then set it back down quickly.

“Yes, in your water at the restaurant. Feel free to drink the scotch; it’s fine.”

John actually laughed. “Let me just repeat this, just so I’m clear: You _put_ something in my drink so that when we, you and I, had sex, I’d think you were Sherlock?” He reached for the glass. “You realize,” he started, taking a goodly slug of the clear liquid, “that there are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to begin?”

Mycroft steepled his hands in front of his face, noting that John was drinking the alcohol with a steady hand, despite the fact that he’s been told that he’d been drugged. 'Interesting.' “Which part would you like me to explain?”

 _“Why_ would you put something in my drink?” he sputtered, his eyes going dark. “And why, possibly, would you want me to think you were Sherlock?”

“Wouldn’t you rather that were the case?” Mycroft shifted forward. “In your heart of hearts, wouldn’t you rather that be the case?”

John took another drink, then started to respond, but Mycroft cut him off.

“You needn’t try to spare my feelings, John. I think we both know that neither one of us would be here right now if Sherlock hadn’t taken that fall.”

“No, you’re right.” John admitted, glancing back towards his empty glass. “But that doesn’t mean--”

Mycroft silenced him with a knowing glance. “John, it’s been clear to me from the very first time that we met that you were already head over heels for my brother. You’ve killed for him, you’ve been kidnapped for him, you’ve leapt across rooftops for him, you’ve overcome your psychosomatic limp for him. The two of you may have been merely been flatmates, but not but from lack of desire--”

Mycroft’s phone began to vibrate.

“Well,” John muttered, “at least on my part.”

Mycroft reached into his jacket and switched off the phone. “I can assure you that the sentiment was well and truly returned.”

“What?” John’s head snapped up. “You’re saying that your brother - your _brother....?”_ He shook his head, biting his upper lip. “And even if he did, what makes me think that he would have told you? It’s not like that it something that you can get from a CCTV you know.”

Mycroft flinched. This was not going well.

“Perhaps we should table this conversation for a later date? I’ll be happy to call for the car.”

“No!” John took a deep breath in and out through his nose. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. That was a cheap shot. And, you’re right. I’m not over Sherlock - and, the thing that keeps me up at night is the fear that maybe I never will be. So, sorry, if I don’t really understand how having sex with you, pretending to be Sherlock, is going to help.”

“Because it would allow you to move on.” Mycroft offered simply, as if it were true.

“You think?” His disbelief written on every line of his face.

“Why did you text me, John.” Mycroft pressed. “That first day, for tea?  Why _me,_ instead of that attractive DI? He’s newly divorced and has somewhat of a diverse sexual history, considering his occupation and the one long term monogamous - well, at least on his side - relationship. If you were looking for simple companionship, you would have gone there or perhaps even returned to your friend, Sarah.”

He leaned forward, topping up John’s glass. “Yet you texted me. The brother of your departed flatmate; the brother that, for all intents and purposes your departed flatmate despised and I know - for a fact - that he disparaged at every turn.”

John was silent.

“I like you, John,” Mycroft said without pretense. “But Sherlock is here with us as clearly as if he were in the next room. And if you and I are to ever have anything between us other than lies and transference, I truly believe that this is the only way.”

John looked unsure. “And you think this will help?”

Not sure if ‘help’ was exactly the word he would have chosen, Mycroft tried to look as reassuring as he possibly could. “I think it’s what you really want.”

John met his gaze for the first time since they started this. “And what’s in it for you?”

‘I get to watch,’ Mycroft thought honestly, but said instead: “I’ll get to know, first hand, that someone other than myself, honestly loved Sherlock Holmes.”

John was silent. After a few moments, he nodded. “I’ll do it.”

“Good man.” Mycroft reached into his jacket and pulled out the tiny vial. “I put three drops into your water over 25 minutes ago, which was just enough to make you slightly open to suggestion or, more to the truth, more amenable to having conversations like this one,” he explained. “However, an additional 6-8 drops will cause you to question what you’re seeing, but will not effect your judgment any more than it is now. An additional 8-12 drops will further enhance the effects on your senses and begin to impair your judgment, but not to the point that you would do something dangerous to yourself or to others. Beyond 12 drops, you will be in a fugue, and have less control over your limbs, but it won’t harm you.”

“What _is_ this stuff?” John leaned forward and picked up the tiny container. “And where the hell did you get it?”

“Fantasy Fulfiller,” Mycroft managed with a straight face, despite his personal distaste of the drug’s so-called street name.

John glanced up. “You didn’t get this from Irene Adler did you?”

“Let’s just say that Ms. Adler was good for more than upending counter terrorists plots.” Mycroft stood. “I can assure you, John, it’s quite safe.”

“So what do I do?” John looked at the bottle as if it were a snake. “How’s this going to work?”

“First, I would like you to answer a few questions; a simple yes or no will suffice.”

John considered this. “Okay.”

Choosing his words carefully, Mycroft asked, “Do you want to have sex this evening?”

“Yes,” John answered, with no hesitation.

‘Well, at least there’s that.’ Mycroft leaned forward, so that he could see every nuance of John’s face. “Do you object to me pretending to be Sherlock this evening?”

“No.”

Satisfied with what he was seeing, yet knowing that he was was walking a very fine line, Mycroft continued. “Do you want to have sex with Sherlock this evening?”

John hesitated. “Yes.”

Mycroft nodded. Although he wasn’t sure how far he should go, on the off chance that this blew up spectacularly, he decided better safe than sorry. “If Sherlock were here in this house, and was willing, would you have sex with him?”

John choked. “Uh, yes. Yes, I would.”

“Very well,” Mycroft turned to go.

“But Mycroft,” John called after him. “How, exactly is this going to work?”

“Oh yes.” Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. “Take as many drops as you like - preferably underneath your tongue. Personally, though, I wouldn’t take more than 12. Then, when you’re ready, come upstairs to the first room on the right. There are instructions on the pillow.”

“And you really think that I won’t be able to tell that it’s you?” John sounded skeptical.

“You’ll be blindfolded for one, which no doubt will help.” Registering the surprise on John’s face, Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Did I not say that earlier?”

“No,” John’s voice was deep and, if Mycroft could see his pupils, he had no doubt that they would be meeting the edge of his irises. “No, you did not.”

“Well, between the designer drugs, the blindfold, and the hand cuffs....” Mycroft trailed off. “There will be little doubt as to with whom you are bed.”

John swallowed, his ears pinking. “So I should just?” He asked motioning to the vial in his hand. “Now?”

“Whenever you’re ready.” Mycroft cocked his head to one side, trying to see him through Sherlock’s eyes. “All on your own time, John and if you should change your mind, just push the button on the wall to call for the car and we’ll resume our regularly scheduled dinners next week - no harm done.”

John sat the vial next to the half empty glass of Scotch. “I’ll see you--” He huffed uncomfortably. “--Or not, in a few minutes, then.”

“As you wish.”

“Oh, and Mycroft?” He called, his voice two sizes too small. “Thank you.” 

 

 

~*~

Mycroft hurried up the stairs and slipped into the guest bedroom. Pulling out his mobile, he tapped into the house security system.

On the tiny screen, John leaned forward reaching for the bottle. He untwisted the lid, then held the dropper up to the light. After a few moments and a muttered, ‘What the hell?” John tipped back his head and opened his mouth and squeezed.

_One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten...._

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tilted his head back with a grimace.

_Eleven-twelve._

Letting out a breath, Mycroft glanced over the bed: blindfold, check. Silk hood, check. Instructions, check.

He glanced at the mobile CCTV unit. John was still sitting on the couch.

Mycroft stepped over to the lighting console, dimming the lights just so, washing the room in a lilac haze. He also flipped a switch, filling the room with white noise - not enough to be annoying, but enough to keep John’s rational mind disengaged.

Hearing John on the stairs, Mycroft slipped further down the hall and into the master bedroom.

“You told him,” Sherlock accused, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I obtained consent,” Mycroft corrected shortly. “There’s a difference.”

“Why?”

“So you would know the truth before you did this, assuming that you still want to do this after hearing what you heard.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “I can’t very well _not_ at this point, now can I?”

“I could do it,” Mycroft offered, knowing more clearly than he knew his own name what Sherlock’s response would be. “It was your original plan, was it not? And it is, to some degree, what John signed up for.”

“But he wants it to be me!” Sherlock objected.

“True,” Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s face, wondering if he would lose the right after tonight. “But he thinks that it’s me.”

Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t pull away. “No, I’ll do it. It’s gone too far. John is waiting. John wants me.”

“It hasn’t,” Mycroft disagreed. “I’d be happy to go in there right now and tell him that I’ve changed my mind. So make your choice, Sherlock, knowing that there will be consequences.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Mark my words, brother, when you return, this won’t be over.”

 _“If_ I return.” Sherlock amended, clenching his jaw. “No, Mycroft. Let’s go.”

Without a word, Mycroft walked over to his dresser and selected the bottle of cologne that he’d been wearing at dinner. “Did you use my soap, like I told you to?”

“Of course.” Sherlock snapped, his impatience evident.

He unscrewed the cap and splashed a small amount of fragrance, before dabbing it on Sherlock’s pulse points.

“I thought the purpose was for him to think it was me, not to make me smell like you,” he groused.

Mycroft took out his pocket square, rubbing it across Sherlock’s skin, subduing the aroma. “I’m trying to blend our scents, Sherlock. You of all people know that the art of shamming requires some element of truth. If you were to walk in, as you, smelling like you, there’s no way that this would work. If you recall, the point of this entire exercise is for John to think that I’m shamming you, not vice versa.” He grabbed Sherlock’s chin and forced him to meet his eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

Sherlock nodded, not dignifying the question with a verbal response.

“Then trust me and for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise, and don’t do anything - and I do mean anything - that any of us are likely to regret.”

 

 ~*~

True to instruction, John lay naked on top of the duvet, a black blindfold over his eyes and one wrist cuffed to the headboard.

“John,” Mycroft whispered as he entered the room. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” John answered. “Though I feel a little strange; glad I stopped at twelve.”

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed, wanting to say as little as possible. With deft fingers, he did up John’s other wrist and slipped the black silk hood over his head.

“Is this really necessary?” John questioned. “I get the hood, but the cuffs too?”

Mycroft chuckled, taking a moment to pitch his voice low, mimicking Sherlock’s velvety baritone. “I’d hate for you to reach for head full of curls and come away with little to nothing for your efforts.”

“Oh my God!” John laughed. “You sound just like him.” He sounded nervous, but there was nothing in his body that suggested he was unwilling. He rattled the cuffs, having gotten over his initial surprise at hearing “Sherlock’s” voice. “Yeah, I can see how reaching for him and finding you might ruin the effect.”

Mycroft trailed his fingers up John’s arms, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. “From here on out, John,” he said, still using Sherlock’s voice, “I want you to think about Sherlock. Just imagine that you’re back at Baker Street and you’re just in from a day at the locum. Imagine that you go up to your room, only to find Sherlock there, waiting for you.... Imagine him....” Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock who stood in the doorway, eyes wide, wearing nothing but one of Mycroft’s silk dressing gowns. “Imagine him wearing his silk dressing gown. Imagine him taking you by the hand and laying you down across your very own mattress and taking your hands one by one and fastening them to the head board.”

John groaned and Mycroft watched the signs of arousal register all along his body. Elevated pulse, the flush of red originating at the neck and flowing down his chest. The erect cock....

“Jesus,” John uttered.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, John,” Mycroft continued, sounding more and more like Sherlock with each word. Taking one step back, he motioned for Sherlock to take his place.

“Imagine him standing by the bed, watching you. Dissecting you. Imagine what it would feel like to have Sherlock seeing everything that you’ve ever tried to keep hidden. Your want. Your desire. Imagine him sizing you up, noticing everything.”

He took a deep breath, motioning for Sherlock, who seemed utterly paralyzed, to come closer still.

John’s breath was ragged.

Mycroft took a deep breath and switched to first person. “Look at you, John.” His voice a perfect blend of awe and derision. “I must admit, I’m seeing a totally different side of you. Who knew what lay underneath all of those shapeless jumpers.”

Sherlock reached out and slid his hand across John’s surprisingly muscled abdomen.

“Obviously all of those women were idiots,” Mycroft said, voice condemning. “If you’d been mine, I would have never let you go.”

“Oh my God,” John gasped. “Sherlock?”

“I didn’t think I was quite at God-like status,” Mycroft laughed, causing even Sherlock to start. “But I may very well be by the time we’re through.”

Sherlock climbed up on the bed, running his hands up and down the length of John’s torso, eyes bright. Mycroft moved so that his voice would be in the right location. “God, John, look at you. Tell me what you want - I’ll do anything. Anything at all.”

“Anything,” John muttered, his voice wrecked. “Oh my God--”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft suggested, his voice low.

“Sherlock,” John affirmed. “God yes, Sherlock.”

With that, Mycroft stepped back, motioning for Sherlock to do what he would.

Sherlock hesitated, pointing to his mouth in silent question.

Sure that the drug was doing its work, Mycroft nodded as he lowered himself silently into the chair next to the bed.

“John?” Sherlock, said, his voice rusty.

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft held his breath as Sherlock leaned forward, lifted the bottom of the mask, and lowered himself down, their lips almost touching. “John?”

“Yes, Sherlock....” It sounded like John was crying and Mycroft was afraid that he might be joining him before this evening was over. “God, yes.”

Mycroft watched silently as Sherlock explored and worshiped every inch of John Watson’s body. Fingers, lips, tongue, it didn’t matter.

Once John - and Sherlock - got over the shock of that initial kiss, they alternated between passion and laughter and what Mycroft could only describe as love.

Although John begged to touch Sherlock, he accepted the gentle denials and reprimands, usually delivered via tiny nips to nipples or the slight softening of his middle.

As John writhed and wriggled, trying to get closer, all the while chanting Sherlock’s name interspersed with words of regret and declarations of love, Sherlock touched, kissed, held and reassured.

Mycroft shifted in his chair uncomfortably. At one point, he’d stood to leave, but Sherlock had turned and fixed him with a look so demanding that he’d merely sank back into the chair. He felt like he was watching a train wreck. He knew he shouldn’t be seeing this - that this breach of privacy, more than anything Sherlock might be doing to John with or without his consent - might be the most unforgivable aspect of the whole scheme.

His brother truly was loved.

And, more to the point, he realized, watching as John begged Sherlock to fuck him, only to have Sherlock take his mouth in a gentling kiss instead, Sherlock truly loved.

John.

He truly loved John

Mycroft’s heart twisted in a way that didn’t warrant thinking about.

The phone on the other side of his waist coat vibrated and the entire room froze.

“Sherlock?” John questioned, as Mycroft scrabbled with the phone.

“It’s nothing, John,” Sherlock assured. “Mycroft must have left his phone in here when he left.”

“My -Mycroft?”

If looks could kill, Mycroft would have been dead in the moment.

“Yes, John. My _irritating_ brother was here, don’t you remember?”

“Still here?”

“No,” Sherlock assured, reaching down for another kiss. “He’s long gone. Probably down in the kitchen if I know him.”

John laughed. “Sherlock,” he admonished. “I like your brother.”

“Yes.” Sherlock kissed him again. “I know.”

“Sherlock?” He murmured, still in it, despite the unfortunate interruption.

“Yes, John?”

“Would you fuck me? I want to feel you. Please.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. He glanced over at Mycroft before turning his attention back to John. “No John, not tonight.”

“But when, Sherlock?” John sounded upset. “When will you?”

“Later,” Sherlock promised, kissing a trail down John’s torso and taking him into his mouth for the very first time. “I promise,” he said, the words muffled beneath John’s sharp inhalation. “I promise.”

Knowing that Sherlock had taken his words to heart, Mycroft stood silently and walked towards the door. He glanced back over his shoulder, just in time to see the beginning of John’s orgasm and Sherlock reaching around and bringing himself off in the grand finale.

Stepping fully into the hall, he fished out the phone, knowing before he looked who it would be. There was only one reason that that phone would ring. Checking the text that he’d been waiting for since ever since he’d first called Sherlock back to London, Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh at the timing.

_S M - 42 Chelmsford Park Road, London. Armed and Dangerous. Walks his dog every morning. Leaves at 7, back by 8. - A_

“Would you stay?” Mycroft started at the sound of John’s voice through the partially open doorway. “You don’t have to untie me. I promise I won’t touch you.”

“No, no, John.” Sherlock’s words trailed off in what Mycroft could only assume was a kiss. “It’s better this way. It will seem more real.” Sherlock answered, his voice sounding more like Mycroft’s own with each word. “Stay in the fantasy, John. I’ll see you in the morning.”

There was a heavy silence in the room; Mycroft could feel it even in the hall.

“Okay, Mycroft.” John took a deep breath. “Okay - that was.”

“Don’t try to speak,” Sherlock instructed. “Don’t think. Just feel and sleep. Will you do that John? Would you do that for me?”

Mycroft heard the clink of the cuffs as Sherlock released them.

“Just remember, John,” Sherlock whispered, “it’s all good. All of it.”

 “Yes.” John sounded exhausted. “You’re right. It _is_ all good.”

 

~*~

By the time Mycroft answered Anthea’s text and returned to the master bedroom, Sherlock was standing at the foot of the bed, stuffing the few things that  he’d brought with him into his black duffle bag.

Once glance told Mycroft that Sherlock had, as he was want to do, underestimated his emotional reaction.

“Sherlock,” he greeted quietly, pushing the door shut behind him and flipping the lock.

“I’m going,” Sherlock announced, stating the obvious.

Mycroft strode over and wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist. “I think you should stay, Sherlock,” he said, taking in his trembling hands and shattered features in the mirror above the bed. “You’re in no state to leave tonight.”

“Well, I can’t guarantee that I would be in any better state to witness your post-coital breakfast with John, either.” His voice cracked. “Let me go, Mycroft.”

“No, no,” Mycroft whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s curls. “I can almost promise you, brother, that John will be long gone by the time I go down to breakfast and that your performance will have effectively ended any romantic feelings that the good doctor may have ever believed that he had for me.” He squeezed Sherlock closer. “He loves you, God help him. Now that he’s admitted that to himself, he won’t continue to see me. It’s not his nature.” He loosened his grip, urging Sherlock to turn and face him. “You know that.”

Sherlock said nothing; but Mycroft could see the hope there.

“So stay - either here or in the room upstairs?”

“I still have to find Moran, though.” Sherlock said, his voice one shade above a whine. “Who knows how long that will take. What if John doesn’t wait that long? Even if he doesn’t pursue something with you, he might change his mind.”

Mycroft smiled. “About that....”

“About _what_?” Sherlock pushed him away, all emotion stricken from his face. “What do you know about Sebastian Moran?”

“More than I did at the beginning of this evening I assure you,” Mycroft admitted.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “The text. You received a text on a phone that you had all but forgotten about.”

Knowing that there was no way that he was going to be able to keep this from Sherlock, and not sure that he should even try, Mycroft reached into his jacket, pulled out the phone and handed it to him without a word.

Sherlock stood stalk still. “You found this out _today?”_

“You were there,” Mycroft reminded, holding his hand back out for the phone. “I could take care of this you know. You don’t have to do it on your own.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed, one hip on top of the half-filled rucksack. “So, I go kill Moran and come back to a flatmate who thinks that he’s slept with my brother?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a slow, grounding breath. “The irony of the situation was not lost on me, as you might well imagine. I had no idea that Anthea would find him this week of all weeks.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “Well, I had no idea that Anthea was looking, full stop.”

“You really think that I would abandon you like that?” Mycroft frowned. “My people have been looking from day one.” He hesitated, but decided that if now wasn’t the time for honesty, he didn’t know what was. “I miscalculated with Moriarty, Sherlock. I'm not going to risk you a second time.”

“But what about John?”

Mycroft shifted the rucksack and sat down, their thighs touching. "What about him?"

“Say I do find Moran,” Sherlock began. “What will John think? He’ll be embarrassed. He’ll feel guilty.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, but you’ll know the truth.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Well, whatever happens, that will put you in the unique opportunity to either tell the truth or to forgive him. It will be entirely up to you.”

Sherlock started to say something, but then seemed to think better of it.

“What?” Mycroft prompted, bumping their shoulders together.

“Do you really think that John will be gone in the morning?” Sherlock asked, without looking up.

Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat. “I can almost guarantee it.”

“Then would you mind if I stayed just one more night? Here, with you?”

Mycroft stood silently, unbuttoning his waist coat. “You, my dear brother, may stay for as many nights as you like.”

 

  ~MH~

_The sixth time Mycroft met John, he was at Baker Street, sitting on the couch reading a medical journal, with Sherlock’s head resting easily in his lap. Sherlock had returned, l’enfant terrible triumphant the week before. Mycroft thought it was best to let the dust settle before dropping by unannounced. Fortunately he had met Mrs. Hudson on the street, who let him in without him having to ring the bell._

“Don’t bother getting up on my account,” he said by way of greeting, dropping into what he often thought of as his chair. “John.” he inclined his head. “Sherlock. You’re both looking well and relaxed.”

It was a bit of an overstatement, actually, because John looked a little like he’d swallowed a toad.

Mycroft had been correct in his assessment of how The Morning After would play itself out: Sherlock aside, Mycroft had woken to an empty house - a brief note of thanks and a promise to be in touch was that all that remained of John Watson’s presence. Even the sheets in the guest bedroom had been stripped efficiently from the bed and put into the laundry shoot for washing. The blindfold, hoods, and cuffs were nowhere to be found.

Of course, John hadn’t called. Not that Mycroft had really expected him to.

By the time John might have given into the norms of politeness, even if it were to tell Mycroft that they, so to speak, were done, Sebastian Moran’s body was delivered to the Yard, along with evidence tying the corpse to over 1,000 major crimes across the globe.

Less than five hours later, Sherlock was home, back at Baker Street as if he’d only gone out for a pint of milk.

Mycroft was happy for them both and though he missed the newfound intimacy that he’d shared with his brother the week leading up to his return, far be it from him to intrude where he wasn’t wanted.

But to not show up at all.... No, even though it might spare the good doctor’s embarrassment, it would eventually raise his curiosity.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock rolled to his side, not bothering to get up. “John and I were just having a nap.”

“It seems as if you were having a nap. John is at least pretending to read, though from the looks of things, he’s merely enjoying your presence. And I just came by to see my darling brother,” he paused strategically, watching Sherlock’s ears pink up “and his charming flatmate. And, of course, to offer my many happy congratulations.”

With that, Sherlock scowled and John pushed him off of his lap, excusing himself to use the loo.

Mycroft watched him go, before turning his attention back to Sherlock, who had pulled himself up into an awkward perch, looking very much like a pterodactyl.

“I see that you’re opting for forgiveness,” Mycroft noted, with what he hoped was disapproval, “should the matter ever come up.”

Sherlock flushed. “It’s none of your business what we’ve discussed.”

“Isn’t it?” Mycroft felt a pang of regret.

Unwilling to sit there and let Sherlock fillet his every expression, he stood silently, making his way into the kitchen. “Well, brother, since you can’t be bothered to offer me a cuppa, I’ll just have a quick glass of water and be on my way.” He reached up into the cabinet, pulled down a marginally clean glass, and filled it with tap water.

Just as he was bringing it to his lips, he felt, more than heard, Sherlock come up behind him.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock observed, slipping his arms around him from behind.

“Sherlock,” he hissed. “What do you think you’re doing? What if John--?”

“Am I not allowed to show affection to my only brother?” Sherlock asked, pressing a chaste kiss underneath his ear. “Thank you for giving me Moran,” he whispered.

“Is that all?” Mycroft turned in his arms, meeting his gaze and for a moment it was almost as if they were back in his rooms at Kensington.

“Thank you for John.” He whispered, his lips barely brushing Mycroft’s in the simplest of kisses.

“Dear Lord!”

Sherlock stepped back quickly, revealing his very confused flatmate.

John’s eyes were as big as saucers, his mouth open in what looked like shock.

Mycroft took another sip of water before setting the glass next to something that looked remarkably like grey matter - not that he wanted to know. “Well, gentleman, I must be going. So nice to see you both.”

John finally managed to close his mouth, and wave his hand between the two of them. “Is there something you two aren’t telling me? I mean, because I’m not sure I believe what I’m seeing.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and smiled. “I’m sure that there are many things that Sherlock would like to tell you, isn’t that right, Sherlock?”

Ignoring Sherlock’s sullen expression, Mycroft leaned forward and kissed his brother on the cheek. “So, I’ll just leave to it you, then?” He picked up his umbrella where he’d left it by the door. “Oh Sherlock,” he hesitated just at the top of the stairs.

“Yes, brother?”

Mycroft counted to three, his words, once again failing him. Laying his hand on the doorframe, he went for the simplest of truths. “I’m glad you’re home.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction in over five years and, thus, my first attempt in this particular fandom. Special thanks for Jadis for her ongoing support and her lightening fast betas. All remaining errors are mine.


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